FERRARS.
Robert Brierly caught his breath.
"And your reason?" he gasped, "for you have a reason other than the mere
fact of the bullet-wound in the neck."
"I have seen just such deeds in the wild west and I know how they are
done. But this is also professional knowledge. Besides, man, call reason
to your aid! Oh, I expect too much. The hurt is too fresh, you can only
feel now, but the man shot by accident, be it by his own hand or that of
another, is not shot twice."
"Good heavens, no!"
"But when one who creeps upon his victim unawares, shoots him from
behind, and, as he falls, fearing the work is not completed, shoots
again, the victim, as you must see, receives the wound further to the
front as the body falls forward and partially turns in falling. Do you
see? Do you comprehend?"
"Yes." Brierly shuddered.
"Brierly, this talk is hurting you cruelly. Let us drop details, or
postpone them."
"Not the essential ones. I must bear what I must. Go on, doctor. I quite
agree with you. It looks like a murder, and we must--I must know the
truth--must find the one who did the deed. Doctor, advise me."
"About----"
"How to begin, no time should be lost."
"That means a good detective, as soon as possible. Do you chance to know
any of these gentry?"
"I----No, indeed! I suppose a telegram to the chief of police----"
"Allow me," broke in Doctor Barnes. "May I make a suggestion?"
"Anything. I seem unable to think."
"And no wonder! I know the right man for you if he is in Chicago. You
see, I was in hospital practice for several years, and have also had my
share of prison experience. While thus employed I met a man named
Ferrars, an Englishman, who for some years has spent the greater part of
his time in this country, in Chicago, in fact. There's a mystery and a
romance attached to the man, or his history. He's not connected with
any of the city offices, but he is one of three retired
detectives--retired, that is, from regular work--who work together at
need when they feel a case to be worth their efforts. I think a case
like this will be certain to attract Ferrars."
"And he is your choice of the three?"
The doctor smiled. "The others are married," he said, "and not so ready
to go far afield as is Ferrars."
"You think him skilful?"
"None better."
"Then, do you know his address?"
Brierly got up and began to walk about, his eyes beginning to glow with
the excitement so long suppressed. "Because we can't get him here too
soon."
"I agree with you. And now one thing more. To give him every advantage
he should not be known, and the inquest should not begin until he is
here."
"Can that be managed?"
"I think so."
Brierly was now nervously eager. He seemed to have shaken off the stupor
which at first had seemed to seize upon and hold him, and his questions
and suggestions came thick and fast. It ended, of course, in his putting
himself into the doctor's hands, and accepting his plans and suggestions
entirely. And very soon, Dr. Barnes, having given his factotum distinct
instructions as regarded visitors, and inquiries, had set off, his
medicine case carried ostentatiously in his hand, not for the telegraph
office, but for the cottage, close by, where Hilda Grant found a home.
It was a small, neatly-kept cottage, and Mrs. Marcy, a gentle, kindly
widow, and the young teacher were its only occupants.
The widow met him at the door, her face anxious, her voice the merest
whisper.
"Doctor, tell me; do you think she will really be ill?"
"Why no, Mrs. Marcy; at least not for long. It has been a shock, of
course; a great shock. But she----"
"Ah, doctor, she is heart-broken. I--I think I surely may tell you. It
will help you to understand. They were engaged, and for a little while,
such a pitiful little while it seems now, they have been so happy."
The doctor was silent a moment, his eyes turned away.
"And now," went on the good woman, "she will be lonelier than ever. You
know she was very lonely here at first. She has no relatives nearer than
a cousin anywhere in the world, to her knowledge. And he has never been
to see her. He lives in Chicago, too, not so far away."
"Yes, surely he ought to visit her now, really. Just ask her if I may
come up, Mrs. Marcy. I--I'm glad you told me of this. Thank you. It will
help me."
Ten minutes later Doctor Barnes was hastening toward the telegraph
office, where he sent away this singular and wordy message:
"Frank Ferrars, No. ... Street, Chicago--
"Your cousin, Miss Hilda Grant, is ill, and in trouble. It is a
case in which you are needed as much as I. Come, if possible, by
first evening train.
"WALTER BARNES."
"That will fetch him," he mused, as he hastened homeward. "Ferrars never
breaks a promise, though I little expected to have to remind him of it
within the year."
"Well," began Brierly, when he entered his own door. "Have you seen her?
Was she willing?"
"Willing and anxious. She is a brave and sensible little woman. She will
do her part, and she has never for one moment believed in the theory of
an accident."
"And she will receive me?"
"This evening. She insists that we hold our council there, in her
presence. At first I objected, on account of her weakness, but she is
right in her belief that we should be most secure there, and Ferrars
should not be seen abroad to-night. We will have to take Mrs. Marcy into
our confidence, in part at least, but she can be trusted. We will all be
observed, more or less, for a few days. But, of course, I shall put
Ferrars up for the night. That will be the thing to do after he has
spent a short evening with his cousin."
Brierly once more began his restless pacing to and fro, turning
presently to compare his watch with the doctor's Dutch clock.
"It will be the longest three hours I ever passed," he said, and a great
sigh broke from his lips.
But, before the first hour had passed, a boy from the telegraph office
handed in a blue envelope, and the doctor hastily broke the seal and
read--
"Be with you at 6.20.
"FERRARS."
When the first suburban train for the evening halted, puffing, at the
village station, Doctor Barnes waiting upon the platform, saw a man of
medium height and square English build step down from the smoking car
and look indifferently about him.
There was the usual throng of gaping and curious villagers, and some of
them heard the stranger say, as he advanced toward the doctor, who
waited with his small medicine case in his hand--
"Pardon me; is this doctor--doctor Barnes?" And when the doctor nodded
he asked quickly, "How is she?"
"Still unnerved and weak. We have had a terrible shock, for all of us."
When the two men had left the crowd of curious loungers behind them the
doctor said--
"It is awfully good of you, Ferrars, to come so promptly at my call. Of
course, I could not explain over the wires. But, you understand."
"I understand that you needed me, and as I'm good for very little, save
in one capacity, I, of course, supposed there was a case for me. The
evening paper, however, gave me--or so I fancy--a hint of the business.
Is it the young schoolmaster?"
The doctor started. It seemed impossible that the news had already found
its way into print.
"Some one has made haste," he said, scornfully.
"Some one always does in these cases, and the _Journal_ has a 'special
correspondent' in every town and village in the country almost. It was
only a few lines." He glanced askance at his companion as he spoke. "And
it was reported an accident or suicide."
"It was a murder!"
"I thought so."
"You--why?"
"'The victim was found,' so says the paper, 'face downward, or nearly
so.' 'Fallen forward,' those were the words. Was that the case?"
"Yes."
"Well, did you ever see or hear of a suicide who had fallen directly
forward and face downward, supposing him to have shot himself?"
"No, no."
"On the other hand, have you ever noted that a man taken unawares, shot
from the side, or rear, falls forward? If shot standing, that is. It is
only when he receives a face charge that he falls backward."
"I had not thought of that, and yet it looks simple and rational
enough," and then, while they walked down the quiet street running
parallel with Main, and upon which Mrs. Marcy's cottage stood, the
doctor told the story of the morning, briefly but clearly, adding, at
the end, "In telling this much, I am telling you actually all that I
know."
"All--concerning Miss Grant, too?"
"Everything."
The doctor did not lift his eyes from the path before them, and again
the detective shot a side glance from the corner of his eye, and the
shadow of a smile crossed his face.
"How does it happen that this brother is here so--I was about to
say--opportunely?"
"He told me that he came by appointment, but on an earlier train than he
had at first intended to take, to pass Sunday with his brother."
"Now see," mused Ferrars, "what little things, done or left undone,
shape or shorten our lives! If he had telegraphed to his brother
announcing his earlier arrival, there would have been no target
practice, but a walk to the station instead."
The doctor sighed, and for a few moments walked on in silence. Then, as
they neared the cottage he almost stopped short and turned toward the
detective.
"I'm afraid you will think me a sad bungler, Ferrars. I should have told
you at once that Robert Brierly awaits us at Mrs. Marcy's cottage."
"Robert Brierly? Is that his name? I wonder if he can be the Robert
Brierly who has helped to make one of our morning papers so bright and
breezy. A rising young journalist, in fact. But it's probably another of
the name."
"I don't know. He has not spoken of himself. Will it suit you to meet
him at once?"
"We don't often get the chance to begin as would best suit us, we
hunters of our kind. I would have preferred to go first to the scene of
the death, but I suppose the ground has been trampled over and over,
and, besides, I don't want to advertise myself until I am better
informed at least. Go on, we will let our meeting come as it will."
But things seldom went on as they would for long, when Frank Ferrars was
seeking his way toward a truth or fact. They found Mrs. Marcy at the
door, and she at once led them to the upper room which looked out upon
the side and rear of the little lawn, and was screened from inlookers,
as well as from the sun's rays, by tall cherry trees at the side, and
thick and clinging morning glory vines at the back.
"You'll be quite safe from intrusion here," she murmured, and left them
as she had received them at the door.
If Doctor Barnes had feared for his patient's strength, and dreaded the
effect upon her of the coming interview, he was soon convinced that he
had misjudged the courage and will power of this slight, soft-eyed,
low-voiced and unassertive young woman. She was very pale, and her eyes
looked out from their dark circles like wells of grief. But no tears
fell from them, and the low pathetic voice did not falter when she said,
after the formal presentation, and before either of the others had
spoken:
"I have asked to be present at this interview, Mr. Ferrars, and am told
that it rests with you whether I am admitted to your confidences.
Charles Brierly is my betrothed, and I would to God I had yielded to his
wish and married him a week ago. Then no one could have shut me out from
ought that concerns him, living or dead. In the sight of heaven he is my
husband, for we promised each other eternal faithfulness with our hands
clasped above his mother's Bible."
Francis Ferrars was a singular mixture of sternness and gentleness, of
quick decision at need and of patient considerateness, and he now took
one of the cold little hands between his own, and gently but firmly led
her to the cosy chair from which she had arisen.
"You have proved your right to be here, and no one will dispute it. We
may need your active help soon, as much as we need and desire your
counsel and your closer knowledge of the dead man now."
In moments of intense feeling conventionalities fall away from us and
strong soul speaks to strong soul. While they awaited the coming of the
doctor and Francis Ferrars, Hilda Grant and Robert Brierly had been
unable to break through the constraint which seemed to each to be the
mental attitude of the other, and then, too, both were engrossed with
the same thought, the coming of the detective, and the possibilities
this suggested, for underlying the grievous sorrow of both brother and
sweetheart lay the thought, the silent appeal for justice as inherent in
our poor human nature as is humanity itself.
But Hilda's sudden claim, her prayer for recognition struck down the
barrier of strangeness and the selfishness of sorrow, than which
sometimes nothing can be more exclusive, in the mind and heart of Robert
Brierly, and he came swiftly to her side, as she sank back, pallid and
panting, upon her cushions.
"Miss Grant, my sister; no other claim is so strong as yours. It was to
meet you, to know you, that I set out for this place to-day. In my poor
brother's last letter--you shall read it soon--he said, 'I am going to
give you something precious, Rob; a sister. It is to meet her that I
have asked you to come just now.' I claim that sister, and need her now
if never before. Don't look upon me as a stranger, but as Charlie's
brother, and yours." He placed his hand over hers as it rested weakly
upon the arm of her chair, and as it turned and the chill little fingers
closed upon his own, he held it for a moment and then, releasing it
gently, drew a seat beside her and turned toward the detective.
"Mr. Ferrars, your friend has assured me that I may hope for your aid.
Is that so?"
"When I have heard all that you can tell me, I will answer," replied
Ferrars. "If I see a hope or chance of unravelling what now looks like
a mystery--should it be proved a mystery--I will give you my promise,
and my services."
He had seated himself almost opposite Hilda Grant, and while he quietly
studied her face, he addressed the doctor.
"Tell me," he said, "all you know and have been told by others, and be
sure you omit not the least detail."
Beginning with the appearance of Mr. Doran at his office door, with the
panting and perspiring black pony, the doctor detailed their drive and
his first sight of the victim, reviewing his examination of the body in
detail, while the detective listened attentively and somewhat to the
surprise of the others, without interruption, until the narrator had
reached the point when, accompanied by Brierly, he had followed the
hearse, with its pitiful burden, back to the village. Then Ferrars
interposed.
"A moment, please," taking from an inner pocket a broad, flat
letter-case and selecting from it a printed card, which, with a pencil,
he held out to the doctor. "Be so good," he said, "as to sketch upon the
blank back of this the spot where you found the dead man, the mound in
full, with the road indicated, above and beyond it. I remember you used
to be skilful at sketching things."